Friendly
by JMcK
Summary: Something's gone very, very wrong.


Friendly

He found her in the third place he tried.

Sat down next to her, and waited for her to notice him.

It had been just over five minutes, when she looked up to seek out the bartender and instead spotted him.

Her eyes showed surprise only for a moment, and he said nothing.

She had to know why he was there.

Still, she turned her face away, twirled her stir stick in her empty glass, and ordered another drink before speaking to him.

"All due respect, Hotch?" She started, her eyes still on her glass. "I'm off the clock."

"That's part of the problem."

She finally looked up at that. And he clarified quietly:

"JJ, I need you to leave the drinks and let me drive you home. So we can get you back on the clock sooner rather than later."

The bartender brought her new drink then, and she was silent for a moment.

She hesitated before bringing the drink to her lips, but only briefly.

Then, as if she thought she could pretend she hadn't had her world rocked recently, she told him casually:

"I just needed to get out tonight. It's just a drink." And then she added, unable to meet his eyes: "You know me better than that."

"This isn't you," he told her. Then, gesturing at the bar scene around them, "This isn't us. This isn't burning the midnight oil." He gave her a moment, then admitted: "And I know this is the third night this week you've 'needed to get out'. Until well past two."

She lifted her head to look at him, like it was an effort.

He'd thought she might accuse him of invading her privacy and demand to know how he was keeping tabs on her, but there was no anger on her face.

She just looked worn out.

"Hotch, I don't want to fight with you."

"JJ --"

"I'm not ready."

She sounded painfully sincere.

And he let a moment pass at that.

It wasn't so long ago that he'd told her to take all the time she needed.

But if it was a choice between pushing too hard and leaving her to drown herself…

He gestured to her drink.

"You think this is going to help you get ready?"

"I don't know. I know that getting back to the office and strapping on a gun and getting on a jet doesn't feel right."

"And this does?" he challenged.

She turned back to her drink, said nothing.

And the negotiator in him sought out a new argument and settled on empathy.

"I can't imagine what these past weeks have been like for you," he told her. "And I can't claim to know that I would handle it well. But I do know that we need you, and I do know…" He trailed off, waiting for her to look at him. "JJ," he prompted.

She looked up with eyes that pleaded with him to leave her alone.

Still, he continued, holding her gaze without wavering, his tone low and gentle.

"I know that he wouldn't want this."

She didn't move or speak, but her eyes filled.

A moment later she turned and started sifting through her purse.

"Here." Her voice was slurred more from tears than booze, as she handed over her car keys. "You wanted me to get home safe… mission accomplished. You have to be up in six hours and I'm not ready to go yet."

He took the keys.

Took a moment to think it over.

And decided to let it go.

For now.

"I'll see you soon," he warned her, turning to head for the door.

…

True to his word, he arrived on her doorstep the following evening.

He could almost hear her hesitating as she looked out at who was at her door.

To her credit, she didn't pretend no one was home.

And he handed her a manila folder as she as she let him in.

"Four-year-old Amy Snyder. Taken from a city park in Bluewater, Tennessee. The jet goes wheels up in less than twenty minutes and I want you on it."

She stared at him, in her blue jeans and t-shirt. Completely thrown.

"I don't have a ready bag," she tried.

"It was still in your office. Still packed. Prentiss has it." He fixed her with a knowing look. "Next?"

"I don't have my gun."

"You don't need it."

"I have a doctor's appointment --"

"If that's true, reschedule it."

"You already have a temporary replacement --"

"She didn't work out."

She looked like she wasn't sure whether to believe that.

He hoped she couldn't see the faint sense of desperation that was creeping into him.

But he pulled out the big guns.

"She's four years old, she's been missing over an hour, the press is going to be a nightmare, and that's your forte. And ready or not, that's not something you're going to turn your back on. Give yourself a minute to figure that out and change. Then meet me at my car."

He turned and walked swiftly away before she had a chance to argue.

Ten minutes later, she slid into his passenger seat.

And asked him to turn the radio on.

…

It was nice having her back on the jet.

Nice, but strange.

She segregated herself, burying her head in paperwork that wasn't necessary, disappearing into the back for coffee twice as often as anyone else.

She still had a slight limp, Hotch noted, watching her return with her third cup of the short flight.

He wanted to say something, do something, to bring her into their former camaraderie.

She should have been teasing Reid or making after-work plans with Prentiss, not avoiding everyone's eyes and pretending to read emails on her Blackberry.

Prentiss must have been thinking along the same lines, because she suddenly came out with:

"We should have dinner, when this is over." Her tone was light, but her eyes were uncertain, looking around at all of them, hoping the suggestion was okay. "This case, I mean."

There was a brief silence, then:

"Someplace with wood-oven-baked pizza," Reid suggested. And he caught JJ's gaze. "We have to eat. Right?"

He looked hopeful. And God bless him, because JJ actually nodded.

"Sure," she allowed.

And while it was a small victory, Hotch found himself smiling a tiny smile and offering:

"Dessert's on me."

…

The problem with telling JJ that the press would be a nightmare was that the press wasn't.

It should have been a hassle.

The media hounds _were_ everywhere.

But a situation never materialized in which they could be a useful tool. And the local uniforms kept them at bay.

Worse, the local police chief was an understanding and easy-going man, making intervention by an agent trained to smooth inter-office wrinkles unneccessary.

A simple press conference kept JJ busy for all of fifteen minutes.

Then she was free to work with the rest of them.

And there was little to do at home base but wait, and with the way life had been treating her lately, Hotch didn't know how to feel about sending her out into the field without her gun.

He was beginning to worry his mind wasn't focused on the case.

"JJ." He gestured for her to follow him, a few steps away from the officers milling about the family home. "I want you to interview the mother."

"You think she didn't tell Rossi everything?" JJ asked, surprised.

Hotch sighed, then answered without answering:

"You're good with people."

And their eyes met and held.

And all he could think was – _so much for making her feel needed_.

Before she could say anything a quiet murmur seemed to echo through the walls of the adjacent room.

Prentiss came running at them with a freshly printed page in hand.

"He's setting up a ransom drop," she announced. "Insisting that the parents make the trade."

And that was good news for the girl, and bad news for the team.

There was no question that JJ wouldn't be strapping on Kevlar and tagging along on a ransom drop without a weapon.

And the parents wouldn't even be here for her to stay with.

As Emily walked away, Hotch turned back to JJ. And came up with:

"Stay in touch with Garcia. Be ready in case we need you."

"Sure." She nodded.

"Next time --"

"Yeah," she cut him off, still nodding. "It's okay."

…

It was all bad news from there.

The girl was in critical condition.

Her captor was dead.

Even if the team had the heart to go out, it was far too late to enjoy dinner together.

And that mattered.

That left him sitting in his office back at Quantico in the dark.

The phone rang, and he didn't want to pick it up.

"Agent Jareau submitted a formal request for further leave, you can borrow Agent Spaulding from Sex Crimes until we find a more permanent replacement," Strauss announced as if it meant little more than tomorrow's weather. "I trust the rest of your team is keeping their hands clean?"

Hotch thanked her and hung up.

There was no explaining the situation to Erin Strauss.

She wouldn't care that JJ was spiraling, as long as it didn't have the potential to be her problem anymore.

She wouldn't understand that the team was losing yet another one of their own.

And that hurt.

And that _mattered_.

Hotch sat still and lost in thought for a minute, then two, then three.

No answer jumped out at him.

He still felt helpless.

He didn't have the magic words to convince JJ that coming back to them would be good for her.

And he had even less control over everything else.

Still, he held his phone in his hand, thumb poised above the digits, wondering if he should go ahead and show up at her door for the second time in as many nights.

The phone rang in his hand and he nearly dropped it.

Thirty seconds later, he didn't hesitate to jump in his car and head on over to knock on JJ's door.

…

Her hair was still wet from her shower when she heard the knock.

Her cheeks were still wet, too, and not from the shower.

She flipped a light on with wrinkled fingers.

(She'd hidden herself away in the spray of hot water longer than she should have.)

(Dizzyingly long, painfully hot showers were all she ever had anymore.)

(Somewhere deep inside, she was still trying to wash the blood off.)

It would be Hotch at the door.

She knew without looking.

It wasn't that the others didn't care, but they seemed to know and accept that he'd been keeping an eye on her.

She briefly considered ignoring him.

She knew she shouldn't.

But she'd done far worse.

And she didn't need to hear that she was a good agent tonight.

She didn't need to hear that they needed her, either.

She knew what they needed, and she wasn't it.

So she stood still and silent, hoping he'd go away.

But then he knocked loud and hard, and called out:

"JJ, open the door!"

And something in his tone was different.

Urgent, excited.

And she fought off a wave of hope.

Because losing it would only crush her all over again.

But he was relentless.

He banged his fists so long and hard that she couldn't even believe it was _Hotch_ at her door.

And when she finally flipped the lock and pulled on the handle, she saw that he was _smiling_.

"JJ, _he's awake_."

…

Hotch opened doors for her as they made their way through the hospital, and she wasn't sure if he was being polite or if he actually thought she wasn't looking where she was going.

She slowed on her way to the familiar door, only to feel Hotch press his hand against her back and urge her forward.

He was right.

And when she looked back from a few steps away, he'd stopped walking with her.

She'd have to remember to thank him.

He was always right.

…

He still looked impossibly vulnerable in his hospital bed, white sheets and gowns contrasting against his dark skin, foreign machines crowding the head of his bed.

Only his eyes were open now.

And he smiled a tiny smile when he saw her.

"JJ," he greeted, his throat rough from weeks without use.

"How do you feel?" she managed to ask, feeling ridiculous because her voice was almost more broken than his.

"Stuck, mostly," he muttered, his eyes closing briefly.

She sucked in a deep breath and gave him a moment.

And when he looked at her again, his expression was blank.

Like they were friends and co-workers and things were that simple between them.

And she hated to ask.

But she had to ask.

"Morgan, what do you remember?"

It took him a moment.

Then:

"It was a like warzone in there." A flicker of memory worried his eyes. "You were down."

"My leg's fine," she told him quickly.

And he closed his eyes again.

"Guess I'm lucky," he murmured. "Those guys were firing forty-fours every which way. Could have caused a hell of a lot more damage."

And he opened his eyes again just in time to look confused at the sight of her.

Tears falling.

Shoulders shaking.

Fighting to keep it together.

Losing the battle.

"JJ --"

"It wasn't a forty-four… It wasn't even an unsub… It was _friendly_..."

"JJ --"

"It was _me_…"

…


End file.
